


Mindjack

by DyingNoises



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Human, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Hallucinations, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Power Dynamics, Restraints, Rough Sex, Virtual Reality, neckport shenanigans, netrunner!Connor, netrunner!Hank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-05 02:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17316149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DyingNoises/pseuds/DyingNoises
Summary: if (hank.Behave == false){fuck();}





	Mindjack

**Author's Note:**

> This is heavily influenced by Shadowrun and Cyberpunk 2020 and uses a lot of vernacular from those works. It's my hope that everything is contextualized enough to make the meaning intuitive, but if anything's unclear please holler at me and I'll try to fix it.

The sound of his shoes against the marble floor, that was a nice touch. It followed his broad gait without latency, without any tinny aftereffect. The echo off the walls of the foyer faded naturally down the corridor behind him. Sound designer must’ve really worked his tits off on it. This place only represented a shipping company, but by the looks of their online storefront here, their clientele was hoity-toity in the taste department. It was blissfully empty now, though, something he’d had his outside guy make sure of before he dove in. Traffic suspended, nothing more than an empty tab left open on a browser.

Or… that was how Hank related to it, anyway. He wasn’t a computer guy, he was sure there was a more sophisticated analogy in there somewhere. Ten, twenty years ago, he wouldn’t have set foot anywhere near the fucking Cyber Crimes department, he still remembered when computers looked like hulking plastic boxes, back when a smartphone meant a BlackBerry, before they’d… actually, whatever happened to BlackBerry, were they still around? Anyway, point was, before Kamski upended the Internet, he would’ve been a sorry-ass hacker. Now, shit was different.

Thirium. Liquid data, technological advance of the century. Back in his body, his _real_ body, he laid recumbent in a chair that looked like it came alongside the world’s most terrifying dental procedure, a metal port the size of a half-dollar coin was stuck into the base of his skull and hooked right up to the blue shit. Over the last decade, it had transformed the global telecommunications grid into a fully-immersive, three-dimensional wonderland of commerce and depravity.

So, Cyber Crimes started to look a lot more like Regular Crimes.

He walked around in his digital body with no twinge in his lower back or stiffness in his bum knee, no more effort than whatever standard brain impulse normally told his legs to move. He used programs designed by men much smarter than him and at a much higher paygrade, shaped to objects familiar to him. Lockpick, phone, pistol. A lot of the Net worked that way. It had exploded outward exponentially, swallowing up every wire and signal, it _had_ to be intuitive. Familiar at a glance.

Suited him fine. It meant the people he hunted worked the same way. Firewalls became literal walls, security took the shape of fences, guards, Dobermans. And files? Files took the shape of fucking files. Accessing and reading them could be as easy as popping the cabinet open, depending on where you were digging.

Didn’t seem he was that lucky, this time.

“Christ on sale.” Hank took a step closer to the line of lockboxes set into the wall, like a bank vault. Hundreds, easily, each little box no more than six square inches. If he squinted, concentrated, he could see through the 3D render into the black and electric blue grid that was the Net’s default access. Security on these motherfuckers was dense, and there were thousands more entries than the façade suggested. Customer database. Logs of accounts, manifests with origins and destinations.

A blink set him back in the full render of the office. Time to get to work. He turned a small, transparent cube in his fingers, trying to decide which Program was the most appropriate to use to bust the thing open.

“You know I can’t let you do that, Lieutenant.”

Ice worked its way down his spine. _Fuck._ ‘Lieutenant’. Fuck Reed for yelling that over comms on the last dive, half the reason he was on radio silence tonight.

Hank’s attention snapped to the left, taking in a sight that sure as hell hadn’t been there when he’d walked in. Perched casually on the edge of the executive desk, legs crossed primly, one over the other, sat the bane of his fucking existence. Christ, those legs. His eyes followed the line of them upward, along a lean body that he prayed to God was a direct one-to-one analog with the guy’s real self. He was wearing something akin to a racing suit, black and grey and blue. It had a zipper that trailed from the collar to halfway down his left thigh he wanted to pull down with his teeth.

Goddamn. It looked damn near _painted_ on.

He hoped it hadn’t been as long as it felt by the time he finally met the other Netrunner’s eyes. Brown, warm, doe-like. Hank had learned the hard way that this guy was no fucking Bambi, right around the time he was booted out of his last session so hard it fried his rig. He still remembered the electric shock, the sting of the first-degree burns left on his skin, and the last words that had been said to him right before everything went black.

_“I think you like chasing me.”_

It still sent a shiver down his spine.

The son of a bitch was smiling at him, head tilting just so, one lock of brown hair so disarmingly out of place. Hank dreamed of choking that self-satisfied look right off his face… he stuffed the Program into his coat pocket and kept a tight grip on it, braced. “RK800. CyberLife Netrunner and all-around shitheel. Should’ve known you’d show up and ruin my night. You need an ass to kick, why’s it always gotta be mine?”

“I’ve had to start keeping tabs on you, Lieutenant. Since the last time.” The guy leaned back comfortably, bracing his hands on the desk behind him. “I’ve learned a lot about you, too. Would you like to hear?”

“I’d like you to fuck off.”

“Hank Anderson, Detroit City Force,” he continued, recommendation ignored. Hank could feel a grim weight settle in his chest at the sound of his name, here, out in the open. A tension between his shoulders that he couldn’t unwind. “Fifty-three years old. You graduated top of your class and got an assignment wrangling misbehaving cyborgs. They called it ‘Psycho Squad’. Your arrest record was exemplary, it even earned you your promotion. I’m very impressed, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, thanks.” The words hissed out from between his teeth. “Anything else?”

“Your Net handle, Sumo? It’s your dog’s name.” The prick’s smile widened, a glint of amusement in his deceptively gentle eyes, “I found that very charming.”

_“Fuck_ that!” 800 hadn’t found that in his goddamn DCF file. That was too personal, it cut too close; he felt the kneejerk, gut-wrenching anger boil up, a tremor in his gruff voice. “What, you think that’ll scare me? That it’s gonna run me off of this case? Keep dreamin’, kid, just you being here tonight tells me I’m on the right track. The only reason CyberLife wants my hands off these files is because there’s something in there I can use.”

“There is.” RK800 unfolded his legs and slid down off the desk, crossing the distance between them with casual, unhurried steps. “I can save us both some trouble tonight, Lieutenant. Your investigation, your haphazard attempts at intrigue, they’re all warranted. What you’ve been suspecting is the truth. CyberLife’s thirium byproduct is sold to red ice distributors. It’s buried under a hundred layers of misdirection, but a man like you, you could work it out, couldn’t you?”

The confession smacked Hank in the face. It felt… wrong, somehow, like he was James Bond and this was the villain’s final showboat before lasering his nuts off. “Holy shit.”

800 shrugged, unimpressed, “There’s a market. You think they should just throw it away? They’re turning millions every fiscal quarter on their _waste,_ why not squeeze the extra profit out of it?”

He hoped the fury he felt in that moment was translated in his digital copy’s face, in the snarl of his voice, “because it’s killing people.”

“Very moving,” 800 said, tilting his head. Hank could feel his eyes on him, evaluating him, and he had no idea how he scored. Apprehension crawled beneath his skin. “but I prefer the cash.”

The pad of his thumb slid over the smooth facet of the Program in his pocket. “Why the fuck are you telling me any of this?”

“Because it doesn’t _matter_ if you know, Hank,” the Netrunner leaned forward, voice tired almost, nearing the end of his patience, “you’ll never make it that far. I’m better than you. I’m more efficient, better equipped, wasting my talents on an old man who couldn’t string together the most basic command. Do you understand?” Hank swore his heart stopped; the guy damn near dismantled it. “You’ll die before you’ll ever scrape together enough to get a warrant, so the least I can give you is the self-satisfaction you’ll get, knowing you were right all along.”

“Ballsy words for a guy hiding out in the fucking Internet.”

“Oh, Hank,” 800 gave him the most adoring and pitiful look, like he was a puppy tripping over his own ears, “you can just call it ‘the Net’—"

Hank lunged at him.

The Program under his fist answered his need for a weapon as soon as it cleared his pocket. The familiar weight of a reinforced baton dropped into his digital hand. 800 had the decency to look at least ten percent surprised as it came swinging at his chest. The first one he avoided, but not the backhand; Hank went all-in on it, the rod took him at the knee and sent 800 stumbling down to the carpet. His next hit was overhand, striking across his collarbone. If he could just hit him hard enough, he might knock the prick right back into his rig, the way it’d been done to him half a dozen times so far. But the next hit didn’t land. A hand lashed out and caught the rod as he followed through, twisted it straight out of Hank’s hand with so much force it stunned him.

800 snapped the baton out to the side and it—it doubled in length and went slack in an instant and the _crack_ it made in the air registered it in Hank’s brain immediately. A whip. No, fuck the whip, it was an on-the-fly, near instantaneous edit to an existing Program, how could he do that? That wasn’t _possible._ He barely had a chance to gape at it before it lashed out and took him around his thick neck. His hands reflexively grappled with the length, fingers digging beneath coils of cord just in time for an electric pulse to chase down it and light his ass up.

For a heartbeat, everything was pitch black and blue grid lines.

RECALIBRATING…

The render dropped back into place around him, disorienting him in its suddenness—it dropped him to his knees, tethered by the throat to the Netrunner’s hand. Like a… leash. Heat surged down between his hips at the thought.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Hank.”

Oh, Christ. Oh, fuck.

He could only watch as 800 stepped closer, slowly, keeping the slack wrapped tight between elbow and palm. He set one slender foot against Hank’s chest and yanked the _shit_ out of that whip, he could feel it as sure as if it was real, slicing into the bends of his fingers and the back of his neck. It wrenched a tangled noise of pain from the back of his throat, the most he could articulate if he fucking tried. He didn’t know how he could describe the effect the sound had on 800—the fucker tilted his head, surprised, a sense of something almost like… wonder. There was a strange warmth smoldering in his eyes, a fascination that softened his wicked face.

He looked at him in a way that set off a sudden spark of heat in his gut.

He looked like he was about to swallow Hank whole.

“You’re equipped for full sensory tonight,” 800 said, leaning down to his captive’s level with a knowing smile, “Hank. Did you get an upgrade, just for me?”

Just for him. How much of checking that little box on the requisition form could he blame on 800? Their last encounter? Laid out on that digital warehouse floor, wishing he could feel the weight of this evil corporate twink as he straddled his shoulders and followed his signature all the way back to his dataport in the blink of an eye. Wondering what it would’ve felt like, if he’d had sensory back then, if he could’ve grabbed him by the backs of his thighs and hauled him up onto his face.

_Fuck off. Tell him to fuck off._ “Krgh,” he answered. _Way to go, champ, you nailed it._

Hank could feel the heave of his chest as he struggled to gulp down a breath, thought of himself reclined in his basement, unable to reconcile the feeling of pressure around his throat, the crush of his airway, as just a play on the mind. Could he suffocate, for real? No, right? That’d be insane. Nothing was really stopping him from breathing normally on the reality side.

So why was his head swimming?

“What about this?” 800’s foot slid down from his chest, resting with a gentle weight on the heft of his gut. Then it moved lower, the arch of his foot through supple leather nestling against the bulge between Hank’s thighs. His toes traced the outline of his cock through his jeans, then pressed down just enough to drag a strangled moan out of the cop’s lips. “Do you feel that, too?”

Of course he did—the friction against his dick shot up his spine and lit him up behind the eyes. Hank forced himself to look upward, following the line of the Netrunner’s slender leg up over his thigh, the stretch of leather between his narrow hips. His eyes dragged themselves higher and looked into 800’s face, hair mussed from the brief struggle, pupils blown out to fuck. There was an edge to him, sharp as a knife, and Hank could feel it picking him apart at the seams.

“That little stunt on our turf today, that was your people, wasn’t it? Why don’t you tell me about your cohorts, Hank?”

Son of a bitch, he couldn’t. He couldn’t stay like this. If he did, he’d give up everything.

The whip was still wrapped around 800’s forearm; Hank made a grab for the slack and jerked him hard into range. His fingers dug under the collar of that skintight suit and yanked, headbutting him square in the forehead. It was enough. Hank was on his feet the instant the Netrunner dropped the whip, he lashed out and slapped the shit out of him, the back of his hand connecting with the side of his perfect face with the most satisfying sound he’d ever heard in his life.

Maybe the second most satisfying.

The little yelp of surprise 800 made, the soft “aah” that followed… he felt his heart stop when the Netrunner looked up at him with a devilish glee, one hand delicately massaging the place where he’d been struck. He was _smiling._

He crooked two fingers towards him, beckoning Hank, “Come on, then.”

No Programs this time, no tricks. Their bodies collided in a mass of fists and elbows, 800 all sleek technique, Hank throwing pure power. He outclassed 800 easily in an unmodded physics engine, but 800 blocked nearly everything he threw. Was that human reflex or processor speed? Well, he didn’t have to play nice. The next time the Netrunner came in close, he wrapped a hand around his pale throat and was rewarded with the briefest look of shock before he shoved him bodily against the wall.

He really didn’t have to drive his fist into the guy’s diaphragm, once, then again, but it sure made him feel a lot better to watch him gag on it.

800 could barely graze his toes against the carpet. He reached up, trying to pry Hank’s big hand off his neck, so Hank took one wrist and pinned it to the wall overhead. 800 writhed under his palms, tested himself against his grip.

He found it unyielding.

“Oh no,” 800 whispered breathlessly, the mischief in his half-lidded gaze and playing on his grin mocked him—motherfucker couldn’t even _pretend_ to be afraid, “oh no, Hank, I think you really caught me this time.”

He hated how much he loved this look on him. That smile that knew everything, even trapped under his hands. Hank’s thumb traced the line of 800’s jaw, slid up over his chin to tug at the fullness of his bottom lip. 800’s tongue licked over the pad of it, took it in his mouth.

_“I think you like chasing me.”_

Hell yeah, he did. Made him feel twenty years younger, back when he owned the streets of the public sector, when he was king of Psycho Squad and fucking nobody misbehaved when Daddy was home. He shifted his weight closer, reducing the distance between them, and the sudden hitch in 800’s breath was a sound he felt from the tips of his toes to the tip of his cock. He slipped his thumb from the Netrunner’s mouth and smeared spit over his chin, tilting it up a little higher to meet him.

“You smug _cunt_.” Their mouths collided; it didn’t feel right to call it a kiss so much as a struggle, each side trying to gain ground. He felt the slick heat of 800’s tongue part his lips and roll against his, a facsimile of wet that some poor engineer must’ve wept over his desk to create, and the softness of 800’s lips, punctuated by teeth that caught his bottom lip between them—cheeky little shit. He squeezed his broad hand tighter around his throat in response and was rewarded with a low groan.

When he pulled back, 800’s tongue slid across the gap between his front teeth.

Static sparked between them.

It sang across his every nerve. Adrenaline spiked. His heart must be pounding back home, he could feel it in the heave of his chest. There was a moment between the two of them, eyes locked, where Hank couldn’t tell if they were gonna fuck or keep beating the shit out of each other—then 800’s free hand tangled in his grey curls and wrenched him back down into another hungry kiss. Yeah, okay. This was happening. He leaned his full weight up against the guy, keeping him pressed to the wall, and he could feel 800’s bulge against his thigh. Simulated heat through the 3D texture of his jeans.

Hank had to let him go, let him drop back down to the ground so he could get his hands on that body. His palms slid up over his frame, wishing he could catch the scent of him through the render, leather and sweat. There was a lot he could praise about this VR sensory thing—sensation delivered, unadulterated, direct to the brain—but it lacked nuance. It lacked consequence. He ripped 800’s zipper down the track, baring skin he couldn’t leave a fucking mark on. The thought of it made him ache.

A growl of dissatisfaction left him as he bent his head to mouth at the ridge of his collarbone. Goddamn shame. A bruise was the least 800 deserved. He bit down anyway; maybe he couldn’t break the skin, but the sudden gasp and the way the Netrunner’s back arched against the wall to rut against his thigh was reward enough right this moment. He closed his lips over where he’d dug his teeth and sucked. 800’s hand gripped tighter in his hair, yanking, then he felt both hands shove into his coat and grope at his waist for his belt.

He could feel it in the way those fingers fumbled with the buckle, could hear it in the way his breath came, short and fast, through lips that he should’ve left bruised with far more color. The sense of urgency between them was firing on all cylinders right to his dick, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this _on fire._ Hank slipped a hand beneath the leather of 800’s suit, massaging his palm along the smooth plane of his abdomen, dipping lower and stroking along his length. 800 let out a soft hiss, finally succeeding in slipping free the button of his jeans and tugging down the zipper, but he stopped dead the instant Hank gave him a firm squeeze.

“Look at that,” Hank said, the breadth of his hand engulfing 800’s cock easily, “I could just swallow you whole.”

There was a glint of something primal in 800’s eyes when they snapped up to meet Hank’s. It was the first time he’d ever seen the Netrunner at a loss for words.

“This really all it takes to make you behave?”

800’s eyes raked over him, then he pulled himself back together, tilting his head to a coy degree and fixing him with the smirk again, “I thought you’d like the whip.”

Hank tensed, immediately defensive, “What?”

“But you’re a lot more receptive when you think you’re in control.”

“Okay—”

Hank’s fingers fisted in the Netrunner’s hair, yanking him hard away from the wall a few clumsy steps to the desk, throwing him hard across the surface, bent over it. 800 moved to push himself up, but Hank’s big hand splayed across the back of his skull and forced his face against the polished wood façade. “You stay _down.”_

A low groan was his answer, and obedience. 800’s hands grasped at the edge of the desk overhead, but he didn’t resist again. He manhandled the bodysuit down off the guy’s shoulders and arms, damned if he didn’t look sexy as hell in it but right now it was a nightmare of a track hurdle. He left the leather bunched gracelessly around his thighs, bare from the ass up. One big hand cupped an ass cheek appreciatively—gave it a firm smack that made the guy jolt against the desk with a muffled grunt. His fingers followed the trail of his spine up between his shoulders.

This couldn’t be some modded-out avatar, no way. No artist could’ve rendered these freckles.

“Right here.” Hank pressed his fingers to the back of 800’s neck, circling right where his dataport would be. The quiet whine, the sudden stutter of his hips against the desk—the guy was imagining it, too, fingertips around the rim, what it might feel like if they dipped inside. “I used to rip the metal out of full ‘borgs with my bare hands…”

With one boot, he kicked 800’s legs open wider, pressing his hips forward to pin the other man’s to the desk. His hand left the ghost of the port, pushing upward into his hairline, taking a fistful again. Hank pressed firm against his slender frame, leaning down to let his voice rasp against his ear, “Now I’ve gotta deal with smartass punks like you.”

800’s hand lashed back over his shoulder, twisting in the collar of Hank’s shirt to hold him close against his back, “You’ve never met anyone like me.”

“No, guess not,” Hank grazed his teeth against the shell of his ear, “not a lot of sociopathic _cocksluts_ on the Net.”

He bit.

“Hank,” 800 moaned; his body arched upward against his own, bare ass grinding against the front of his jeans. Hank’s eyes fluttered closed, holding onto the sound. The only thing between them that wasn’t manufactured, engineered. “Hank, fuck me. I want it _in.”_

“Then hold still,” he crooned, licking over the indents his teeth left behind. Hank’s fingers spread the cheeks of his ass apart, rubbing the pad of his thumb against his asshole, and it—came away slick. He froze, wrenching out of the grip 800 had on his shirt to look. Lube beading at his pert little hole, Christ, just waiting to be used. He pressed a finger inside of him, swallowed up easily. His dick twitched.

“Holy shit.”

“I’ve been thinking about it, too.” He looked up to see 800 watching him from his periphery, murmuring against the mahogany, “I’ve been wanting it.”

He could only grunt in response at this point. The Netrunner hummed his approval when Hank pressed the head of his cock against his entrance, then it twisted into a sudden gasp. He pushed inside of him and the sound 800 made was all consonants somehow.

He felt the Netrunner tremble beneath him, he felt this heady rush overtake him, DCF’s most-wanted, shuddering like a fucking leaf around his dick. He saw every muscle tense and then relax, saw him mouth words against the desk, _is that really you?_ It took him a second to realize, he was asking if his cock was a _mod_. Hank grinned, with just an edge of malice. He gave him the rest of his length in one solid thrust. All those arrogant features softened with lust, lips in a lovely gape for a wordless moan.

“Oh,” 800 reached a hand back between them and framed Hank’s cock with his fingers, dreamy-eyed. He traced where their bodies were joined together, as though he couldn’t _believe_ the stretch he was feeling, as though he had to confirm it was real, “oh, _fuck_ , Hank…"

He grabbed that hand, twisted it up between the Netrunner’s shoulder blades, wrenching a startled yelp from his perfect mouth.

“It’s _Lieutenant.”_

Hank’s hips dragged back and rammed forward into him again, punctuating the command, letting 800 try it on for size. His title on the Netrunner’s tongue, Lieutenant, yes Lieutenant, smothered between gasps for breath. His grip in his hair still holding the cunt’s head to the desk, pinning him in place. 800’s hand scrabbled at the edge of the desk for purchase, the other trapped uselessly behind his back.

“You like that? Huh?” Hank pounded into him like he could fuck the CyberLife out of him, like if he left him so full there’d be no room for anything else. He lost himself in it, in the simulated heat of him, in the strain of 800’s thighs against him, rocked up onto the balls of his feet as he struggled to keep the angle between them _just so,_ and the pretty little dip it made of his spine at the small of his back, “Still feel like you’re in control now, you son of a bitch?”

UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED.

Dark.

Hank was alone in the dark for a heartbeat, for less than a heartbeat, but it felt like a year. For that moment, he couldn’t move—he was acutely aware of his real body, plugged in and paralyzed. He strained his mind but his limbs wouldn’t respond. Alone in his head. Just the sound of his gasping breath and his blood ringing in his ears. Pinned. Trapped.

RECALIBRATING…

Just before panic could seize him in full, he was jerked back down the datastream, snapped back into the simulation, office, desk, 800, sex. He was vaguely aware of standing, of a hand shoving him; the backs of his knees hit something solid and he collapsed backward into a chair. His vision blurred and reoriented itself in patches of pixels. 800 stripped his suit the rest of the way off and came to stand casually between Hank’s knees, erect, thighs still shining slick in the dim light.

Hank couldn’t reach for him; his arms felt like they’d been swapped out with sacks of wet sand.

Something wasn’t right.

“Your first time in full sensory and you jumped right in with the default settings?” The Netrunner eased into the chair with him, straddling his thighs. “Your age is showing, Lieutenant.”

“What the fuck did you do to me?”

800 leaned in close, rubbing his cheek against the rough scratch of Hank’s beard and murmuring into his ear, “I’m going to make your hardware sing.”

HUD menus scattered across his field of vision, unbidden: biometric readouts, available Programs, systems settings. The sensory simpack. He could only watch as 800 fucked with every threshold on the table, sharpness, sensitivity. He yanked them all _up._

Maximum output.

“Hey—”

The drag of 800’s hands down his chest brushed the texture of his shirt across his nipples and sensation arced like lightning through him. He gasped, he swore to god he could feel the swell of his own lungs, the blossom of every capillary. It didn’t prepare him for when the Netrunner’s palm rubbed along his dick. It nearly put him into cardiac arrest.

CONNECTION DESTABILIZING. FORCE QUIT? Y/N

_“No!”_ he spat the word out with a desperate immediacy.

“No?”

“No,” Hank swallowed down a breath to steady himself, forcing his gaze up to meet 800’s. His voice was hoarse when he spoke, rasping out of him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The corner of 800’s lips twitched; he shifted in his lap, fingers wrapped around Hank’s cock, and finally, _finally,_ he felt himself press back inside of him and it was high fucking voltage. A groan tore its way out of his throat, he couldn’t have helped it if he tried, not with every nerve ending turned up to 11. His arms strained against invisible bonds, it was agony, not being able to fuck up into him when 800’s hands braced against his shoulders and rode him in earnest. Hank wished he could see him, fucked out proper. He wished he could see the flush of color on him, the sheen of sweat, hair matted to his face. The angry, horny, hungry part of his brain told him: Find him. Find him and see what he’s like without the Net. The thought slammed into him like a freight train.

Shit. He just kept saying it, shitshitshit, the extent of his mental capacity laid to waste. Was he shaking?

It was going to be the end of him. 800 was going to shatter him and they’d find his corpse in his rig with his fucking brains melted out his goddamn ears.

His head dropped against the back of the chair with all the grace of a potato sack before 800 wrenched it back upright by the scruff of his beard. “Look at me, Lieutenant. I’m better than you,” he held him by the jaw, held his gaze up where he wanted it, on him, and he was beautiful and wicked, dark eyes a haze, “Say it.”

“You’re,” he didn’t mind saying it, he would’ve said anything if it kept 800 on his cock, “you’re better.”

“Say it!”

“You’re _better_ than me!”

The Netrunner raked his fingers through Hank’s hair and leaned in close, grin on his lips, “I won.”

And then he felt it. He felt him. Chasing up the datastream, an unmistakable presence crawling its way up the cable attached to the back of his skull. A sudden heat, circling the rim of his port, a spark of static shock across the metal.

**Do you feel that, Hank?**

“Holy _shit.”_

800’s voice was in his head, vibrations that radiated out from his temples and shivered their way down his spine. He felt it in his _teeth._ His perception of time vanished. It slowed. It condensed. The slide of Hank’s cock inside of him, the feeling overlapped and folded in on itself. A pattern of movement and feedback delay, kaleidoscoping sensation as 800, with each roll of his hips, pulled him into a dozen fractal peaks and valleys again and again, afterimages of his lust-drunk eyes and wet mouth chasing after each other like each of Hank’s worst dreams and greatest nightmares come to life all at once and his heart hammered against his ribs like it was breaking out.

_“Fuck,”_ his fingernails clawed into the arms of the chair as though it could ground him, “Oh, Christ, _please—”_

**Now I’m inside you, too.**

Hank lost the capacity to understand what was happening to him, but he knew what it _felt_ like, it felt like fingers made of white-hot light had reached through his dataport and sunk into the grey matter of his fucking brain,

And it felt like the pressure was searing through to the core of him, like 800 had reached in and found his most vulnerable point, a point he could hide from anyone but _him_ ,

And it felt like 800 pushed into it with the impossible heat of a newborn star to the “Filthy Old Man” button inside his head and _pressed_ and _pressed_ and _pressed,_

And Hank was ashamed of the sound that fell out of his mouth,

And he couldn’t control it, couldn’t process what was becoming of his mind _,_ ecstasy synthesized as colors in bursts across his sight, 800’s voice played across his skin like fingertips, his grasp on reality was a pinprick of focus in the great distance that stretched like a rubber band and then released—he was hurtling toward an electric orgasm, a Pink Floyd laser show, vaporwave acid trip, a sudden spark, a surge of slicksugarsweet synaptic sensation and he was

going

                            going

                                                        _gone._

******

Hank jerked upright with a strangled shout that echoed in the concrete cube of his basement, the tether of the thirium tube to his dataport yanking him right back down against the chair. He panted for breath, sopping wet with sweat and shaken to the core—tears streaked his face, saliva down his beard and soaked into his shirt, and the stain of semen in his sweatpants. Hot. Unbearably hot, heart pounding in his chest like a jackhammer as he came down from that... _unbelievable_ high. He buried his face in his hands and tried to figure out how the fuck he was supposed to explain to Reed that, no, he hadn’t gotten the files because he was too busy getting _brain-stem-fingerblasted by the enemy._

Trashed the case for a piece of ass.

“Fuck!” Hank grabbed the monitor overhead and ripped it off the mounting arm, flinging it clear across the room to shatter against the concrete floor, “FUCK.”

******

Connor’s eyes fluttered open, a soft gasp as his consciousness poured back into his body, flushed and overwarm. Hank. Hank had fucked him. His immediate instinct was to look down between his legs, as though he might see the man’s cum oozing out of him—the realization that he was not only alone but still fully clothed soured some of his afterglow. He sighed and slumped back against his rig, eyes closed, trying to hang onto that last shiver of the pleasure fading from just under his skin. Clutching at the memory of broad hands and a thick cock… he didn’t want to forget.

Footsteps against the metal grate floor warned him of company. He cracked one eye open enough to see his twin standing over the rig, disdainful. Connor made a point of rolling his eyes at the look and stretched his arms casually overhead. Relaxing into his chair. Nonplussed.

Doing his best to convey without words that no lecture was going to spoil his mood.

“That was the closest he’s ever come to sensitive information. You should’ve disposed of him.”

“The situation was never outside of my control.”

“Interesting you’d use the word ‘control’,” his twin said, blue eyes cold as ice, expression as frozen, “considering you seem to have none over your actions.”

Connor rolled his head to the side to look at him, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Me? You’re saying _I’m_ the one with no self-control? And how’s your undercover work going, ‘Nines’?”

900 tensed, his hand instinctively covering his throat. His collar was far too high to show it, but Connor could guess what was underneath. A hickey, a bruise, maybe a bite. That cop Reed was more animal than man. His twin glared down his nose at him for so long that Connor thought he might really take the bait and pick a fight this time; instead, 900 pursed his lips into a thin line and stalked away.

“Clean up the rig, you’re disgusting.”

Oh, please. Connor chuckled, turning his attention to his monitors. He stroked a thumb over a three-day-old picture of Hank from a traffic cam, tracing the shape of his jaw.

“Come and catch me, Lieutenant. I’m waiting.”

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate title, "Ghost of a Creampie"
> 
> Hi, my name is Noys and I'm a Hankaholic. @DyingNoyses on Twitter.


End file.
